Page 9 of Gaming with the Gargoyle in Hallow's Cove

My stomach drops out. Because duh, Gwen, of course this fucking stunning gargoyle doesn’t want to bang his dumpy little best friend. Every time Preston told me to lose weight, or poked at my fat flashes through my head.

“Of course, I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t want to have sex with me either.”

Chapter four

Gabe

I’msofucked.

Gwen looks like she’s about to burst into tears again, and I don’t know what to do. How do you say, “Gwen, I can’t have sex with you because I’ve been in love with you for years?” How do you say, “I tried to get out of this by telling you the gargoyle thing?” How do you say, “I can’t raise a kid with you like a happy family because it’s too close for what I’ve wanted for years?”

I can’t crush this gorgeous woman’s spirit. It’s only just been coming back after Preston crushed it for years.

“This has nothing to do with how you look, or me not being attracted to you,” I pause, because my face is blushing. “And everything to do with me not wanting to complicate things. Our friendship is the single most important relationship in my life, and it’s really dangerous to put that in jeopardy.”

And I don’t know if I can physically survive having sex with you. Not to mention, I don’t know how I’m supposed to live a normal life being your friend once I know what you taste like. In my sweatpants, my cock hardens. I have had years of practice, not getting a hard on around Gwen, but I have never had to confront this before. Because with it being an actual possibility, there is no way I can control it.

Gwen looks down at my pants, and her eyes widen.

Did I mention how fucked I am?

“See, that’s not the problem. It’s—” I grind out. I sigh, looking up at the stars and pleading with them to give me strength. How am I supposed to resist this? How am I supposed to stare down the one woman that I have wanted for all of my adult life and tell her that I don’t want her?

How am I supposed to look down at her, with her wind whipped hair, her cheeks red from our flight, her wide blue eyes staring up at me, and say that I don’t want everything she’s suggesting. Because if having sex with Gwen sounds fucking delicious, breeding her is ten thousand times more so. My breath quickens, because now I’m thinking about it. I’m thinking about dimpling my hands into her thighs and pressing my cock into her wet heat. I’m remembering every moan she’s ever made from tasting ‌food, and hearing them followed by my name. What sounds will she make that I’ve never heard before, what sounds would be only for me?

And as I’m thinking all of this, as wave after wave of questions hit me, the wind shifts and the faint scent of her arousal perfumes the air.

“We are adults. We don’t have to let this mess things up. If we want to have casual sex—we can. If we want to have a baby—we can. You’re a fucking therapist, Gabe. If anyone can do this and keep a friendship intact, you can.”

Gwen wants me. She wants this. She might be phrasing this like it’s just some business transaction, but the scent of her arousal on the air means that she wants it.

“Gwen, it’s just a bad idea… what if—what if one of us falls for the other? It will mess everything up.”

“Then we won’t, we’ll promise we won’t get attached—well… not like that at least. Gabe… I picked fucking Preston of all people. Dating is obviously not a good idea for me. What is a good idea? A perfect quiet little life raising the baby I’ve always wanted with my best friend who has never let me down. And let’s be real, it’s fully a double standard, but I doubt having a kid with me would hurt your chances. I know better than to fall for anyone ever again, I can do this, we can do this. Or…” She trails off and a smile creeps onto her face. “Are you not up for the challenge?”

She knows just how to goad me on. Here we are again, except our roles are reversed. Normally, it’s me, presenting her with an impossible task, daring her to take the risk. Granted, normally it’s entirely fictional, but it’s familiar enough that when she reaches into her pocket, I know what she’s going for. She pulls out a D20, shakes her hand, smirking, and rolls it on the table.

I wait with bated breath. Have I ever cared about the outcome of a roll more? I don’t know, but my heart is beating like a drum. It’s not like I have to follow it… but I know I will.

It lands on 20. Critical success.

That’s all the excuse I need.

I step up to her, pulling her close so that the hard bar of my cock will press into the softness of her belly. I twine my hand up into her smooth hair and cup the back of her head. “Do you want this?” I speak slowly, so she’ll understand what I mean.

Her eyes are wide now, and I wonder how much of the redness in her cheeks is from the flight, and how much is a flush of arousal. With my thumb, I can feel her pulse speed where I caress the side of her throat. She licks her lips, and nods her head.

“Yes,” she whispers. Whatever resistance I had left, whatever objection or reasonable, logical hesitancy I have over not complicating things shatters when she says she wants me.

How can I be expected to stay strong when she is saying everything I have ever hoped to hear?

I lean in and nudge her nose with mine, testing. She inhales sharply, and closes her eyes. Fuck, she’s so perfect. She’s every dirty dream I’ve ever had, and better, because for once, she’s real.

“You want me to fill you up?” Our lips are so close now I can feel the heat of her breath on mine. “You want me to breed you?”

“God yes,” she says.

“Fuuuck.” I lower my lips to brush hers, the touch light, an invitation. It’s a question, and she answers by raising onto her tiptoes to meet me. Her lips are softer than I’ve imagined, and I have spent a lot of time imagining them. Clearly I didn’t factor in how often she applies chapstick, or how much give they’d have. Which, honestly is a little ridiculous, considering how much time I spend staring at them. When I solidify during the day, kissing her is one of my favorite things to picture as I drift off to sleep. I imagine her as she will be when she wakes. She’ll sit at her little table with a cup of coffee, they’ll purse as she blows on it, and then those gorgeous mouth will wrap around the edge of the mug—the one I bought her, of course—and she’ll draw in a sip.